


Mistletoe

by rachelrose



Series: Sherlock Reader One-Shots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Christmas, Christmas at 221B Baker Street, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, Mistletoe, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Sherlock Plays the Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelrose/pseuds/rachelrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Hudson has invited you to this year's Christmas party at 221B Baker Street, in hopes of bringing you and Sherlock together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the Polyvore set for this story [here.](http://www.polyvore.com/mistletoe/set?id=141143478) The direct link to the image itself is [here.](https://38.media.tumblr.com/9dcf07fc345e590a1ae87fef491e2cc8/tumblr_nfllu6mDy61qzcsbgo1_1280.jpg)

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson sing-songs on her way up the stairs. “Sherlock?” As she enters the sitting room, she finds Sherlock and John in their respective seats, John enjoying his cuppa and reading the paper while Sherlock is checking his email. Surprisingly, she's able to get the detective's attention. “Guess who I've invited to tomorrow night's Christmas party?”

John looks up from the paper, his jaw hanging agape. “No way – you actually asked?”

“Of course I did, dear.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I'm not going to play the guessing game with you, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, you're no fun,” she huffs. “Fine. You know Mrs Turner from next door?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Am I really meant to be surprised that you're inviting her?”

She shakes her head. “No – it's not her, dear.” He cocks his head. John bites back a grin. “She also has tenants –“

Sherlock interjects, “the 'married ones?' You've invited the 'married ones?'”

Mrs Hudson taps her foot. “Let me finish, for heaven's sake!” Sherlock is taken down a peg. “Thank you,” she says pleasantly. “ _As I was saying,_ Mrs Turner has tenants. Of course, she's got the married ones, but she also has a nice young lady staying in the flat below hers.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “She's lovely, Sherlock – which you'd know if you ever paid any mind to the neighbours.”

“I have other, more pressing things to entertain me. Like murder,” he deadpans.

“You can't scare me off like that anymore, Sherlock Holmes.” She looks to John. “John's met her once or twice, and I've seen her whenever I spend time next door.”

John takes his cue. “She is quite lovely.”

“So why haven't _you_ shagged her, then?”

John chuckles. “Not really my type.”

“Not easy or vapid, then?” Sherlock smirks.

“Not really, no. Not easily won over by flattery. Gorgeous, snarky, not really the social type – quite like you, actually, now that I think about it.” Sherlock frowns.

Mrs Hudson cuts in. “She's heard quite a lot about you. It was a tough sell, but she agreed to come. She'd like to meet you. And  _you_ , young man –“ she points to Sherlock, “you had  _better_ be nice to her. Keep your – your  _deductions_ to yourself, and be a gentleman.”

“No offence, Mrs Hudson, but your past hardly speaks for you as a matchmaker.”

She huffs. “Say you'll be kind.”

He closes his eyes and pauses before he replies, “ _Fine._ ”

“And John, be a dear and see that he keeps his word.”

“Of course. I'm about as excited as you are.” John beams at her, and Sherlock shoots daggers at him. He pouts for the whole afternoon.

 

* * *

 

_I can't do this. Why am I doing this? I won't even know anyone there! I'll look like a bloody fool showing up all awkward and nervous. And what if he doesn't like me? What if he doesn't even notice me?_ You pace back and forth in your bedroom, your heart beat climbing, your palms sweating as you wring your hands with doubt.  _Am I too dressed up?_ You look to the full length mirror, pleased for once with your outfit of choice. A knee-length dark red velvet dress, black suede heels, thigh-high stockings, and Christmas earrings to match. Your lips are the same shade as your dress, and your eyes are made up with gold tones and black cat-eye liner. There isn't much that can be done with your short brown hair, but it's simple enough to go with anything.  _What if I get there and it's all ugly holiday jumpers?_ You stop suddenly, calming your breathing and squaring your shoulders. You decide that you can do this.  _Who cares if I'm the only one dressed up? I look fantastic._ You smile to yourself.  _It doesn't matter what he thinks of me or not. If he's rude, I'll just go home. If he doesn't notice me, I'll enjoy myself anyway._

 

* * *

 

You're just slightly late for the party – the downside to this being that when you first arrive, handing over your coat and making pleasantries with John, everyone in the room is watching you. It's unnerving, to say the least, but nobody throws food at you – which is a good start.

When you take off your coat, John and Mrs. Hudson are the first to praise your outfit. John takes your hand and twirls you around, making quite a few of the party goers  _ooh_ and  _ahh_ jokingly _._ He says, “You clean up nice, then – don't you?” You blush.

“Make yourself at home, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says.

The next person to comment is the Detective Inspector that you've heard and read so much about. His voice is nothing like what you expected – it's gruff and deep and far from posh. He's only a few feet away when he looks at you with wide eyes and jokes, “Way to make the rest of us look like rubbish, love,” causing the room to break out in laughter as several people nod their heads in agreement.

“Lestrade, is it? I've heard so much about you.” _Am I flirting? Oh god, I'm flirting!_

“Not a word of it's true, sad to say. Mr Consulting Detective lets me take far more credit than I deserve,” he replies, laughing.

You scope the room looking for you-know-who, but he's nowhere in sight. That is, until he comes striding down the hall with his violin poised to play.  _Christ, he's talented._ Per usual, his dress shirt and trousers are tightly-fitting, doing wonders for his physique –  _not like it needs any help._ He closes his eyes and loses himself in song, and everyone watches him in awe.  _This must be an original composition._ And, after all, who would expect the man with the icy, frozen heart to be able to produce such beautiful music?

As he holds out the last note and finally opens his eyes, he takes in the look of awe on the faces around the room. They sit silently, obviously unsure if they should clap. You smile, taking the responsibility of starting the round of applause. You don't expect his eyes to land directly on you, looking you up and down before meeting your gaze for the longest two seconds of your life.  _I hope he's not “deducing” me._

Mrs Hudson brings over two glasses of wine, handing you one while nursing the other one herself. “He's quite talented, isn't he?” you ask conversationally.

“Incredibly so – unless it's three in the morning. That's when I want to strangle him with my bare hands.” You share a laugh.

 

* * *

 

After a couple of hours of chatting with drunk and/or semi-drunk strangers, you're finally approached by one Sherlock Holmes. What he says, however, is not exactly what you are prepared for.

“You're Mrs Turner's tenant, yes?” You nod. “Right. So, of everyone here, there are only three people that smoke habitually, you being one of them. I'm not quite fond of the other two, so –“ he looks you in the eye, asking, “could I bum a fag?” You can't help but laugh, making him frown. “That _was_ the proper vernacular, was it not?”

“I'm sorry, it's just – that wasn't what I was expecting.”

“Ah. You thought I was going to be cruel. That would be a silly thing to do, given that I'm asking something of you.”

“That's true, yeah. We can slip away for a bit if you'd like.”

“I'll get my coat.”

 

* * *

 

It's snowing. Baker Street is desolate, almost – not a single pedestrian in sight. Few cars pass by. But you're not paying attention.

You're standing rather close to Sherlock Holmes, mesmerised by the sight of him inhaling the smoke deeply. _I really shouldn't find that as attractive as I do._ You're slightly disturbed by how happy it makes you to learn that you prefer the same brand of cigarettes. _God, he's a work of art._

With his eyes still closed, he mutters, “Stop staring at me. It's putting me off.”

You blush harder than you ever have in your life. “Err, s-sorry.” You clear your throat. Your anxiety is evident in the fact that you finish your cigarette before his is even halfway done.

“Oh, stop doing that,” he says, exasperatedly. “ _Yes,_ I _am_ in fact a real person. See?” He takes one of your hands and presses it to his warm cheek. You pull it away quickly. “You don't have to be so nervous, for god's sake.”

You shake your head, laughing at yourself internally. “Right.”

“Why did you agree to come tonight?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs Hudson said that she had to convince you to come. What made you agree?”

“Oh, uh,” your eyes dart around in front of you, looking anywhere but at him. “She said you'd be here. That was it, really. She's been trying to set us up for months now. I told her it was hopeless, but...” you trail off, looking down at your feet.

“And why is that?”

You laugh a bit obnoxiously. “I'm sorry, but – you know who you are, right?”

He looks around uncomfortably. “I... well, yes.”

“You're like a bloody superhero.”

“I am _not_ a superhero. They don't exist – and if they did, I surely wouldn't be one of them.”

You shake your head. “Nevermind. It's just – you're unobtainable. Completely out of my league. Or anyone's league, really.” He gives you a strange look, meeting your eyes for the first time since coming outside. “Don't. Really, just don't.”

“I don't... I really don't think I understand.”

“I'm sure you do. Think on that one for a bit, and get back to me.”

You begin to walk away toward the door, but he grips your upper arm. “No, wait,” he says. “I know you must think I'm clever, but if you read John's blog, you must know that I'm also very thick. I'm bad with social cues, and I don't catch on quickly.”

You bite your lip. “Just – nevermind. I'm bad at this too. Forget I said anything.”

He looks confused. “No, I certainly will not.”

“It's just...” you sigh. “You can look at anyone and list all of their flaws and their secrets. But no one can see yours. You're all closed off from the world. You seem like cold perfection – which I know is stupid, really.”

“Yes, it is.” He pauses. “But I haven't even deduced you yet. How do you know that what I see will make you somehow inferior to me?”

“I don't need you to tell me what you see to know that I'm irreparably flawed.”

He frowns. “Do you want to know what I see?”

You laugh sadly. “Probably not.”

He pauses for a moment before he speaks. “You're not social. You haven't touched your phone all night. Your dress – it looks nice on you, but you didn't buy it just for tonight. No, you bought it a while back, hoping that it would give you the courage to attend more social events. It never did. Same goes for the shoes. And you rarely wear this much make-up – you even lacked the foresight to get a manicure before tonight. You never change your hairstyle much because it's too much of a hassle – so you're low-maintenance, too. That, or you think that trying to look 'better' is a waste of time – likely because you think it's a hopeless cause. You suffer from a lack of self-confidence, and your flaws are magnified to you, leading you to believe that any and all attempts at socialising or romance are hopeless. You're over-analytical and have trouble maintaining eye contact. I'm sure you're clever – you should allow yourself the freedom to talk sometimes. And that really means something, coming from me.” He clears his throat. “Well?”

You shake your head and sigh. “Well what? You already know that you're right. You are so, _so_ very right...”

“But don't you see?”

“See what?”

He laughs. “God, and I thought _I_ was thick...” He meets your gaze. “The only one that thinks you're hopeless is you.” You freeze. _I... was that supposed to be a compliment?_ “God, stop _thinking_ so much about it.”

You finally hold his gaze. “You... well, what does this mean?”

“Stop thinking.”

“How?” Your voice cracks.

He quickly wraps an arm around you, pulling you to his chest. He's warm. Butterflies multiply in your gut by the second. All thought stops. “Much better. Come on – let's get back inside.”

When he closes the door behind you, the two of you standing on the landing, you notice two things: one, that the door to 221B is closed, and _oh god, are you kidding me?_

Sherlock barks a laugh, but he doesn't look upset. Both of you look up and see the lovely little mistletoe hanging above your heads. “I'm sure that wasn't there when we first left.”

“Someone's trying _very_ hard to set us up.”

He smiles in a way that you've never seen before. It's genuine. He looks back at you and mutters, “Well, customs are customs, after all.” And then, he kisses you. It's soft and sweet as he brings his hands up to your cheeks, pulling you in deeper, making you feel weightless. It's the greatest, most heady kiss you've ever had, and the butterflies make you dizzy. When you break the kiss, your eyes closed, he keeps his face close to yours.

When you finally break apart, you both come to realize that the door to 221B is open, and inside, Mrs Hudson is collecting her winnings from around the room.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and kudos are highly appreciated. Not beta'd or brit-picked. I'm just an American who watches too much British television and who recently discovered the use of UK English auto-correct.


End file.
